


The Origin of Stiles

by khasael



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, BFFs, Backstory, Child Derek, Child Jackson, Child Lydia, Child Scott, Child Stiles, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Feels, Five Times Plus One, Gen, Gen Work, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Derek, Mother-Son Relationship, Other, POV Melissa, POV Multiple, POV Sheriff Stilinski, POV Stiles, Past, Possibly Pre-Slash, Reverse Chronology, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Stiles Helps Derek, Stiles's Name, Stilinski Family Feels, Vignette, even tiny!jackson is a douche, parent feels, this may have gotten away from me, what the hell is a stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:54:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They even misspelled it on his birth certificate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajaLi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/gifts).



> I got hit with the basis for this (the final scene) while doing something tedious at work (because that never happens). Mentioned it to MajaLi, and then suddenly I had an actual fic on my hands. Thanks to MajaLi and Byaghro for their feedback/reactions, and to Groolover for the beta.
> 
> (Chapter One can be fit into the timeline of the show pretty much any time after S2. Chapter Two slots directly into S1E5, and the rest is sort of arranged via the vague timeline we have of other pre-canon events.)

\----

All things considered, indignation is probably not the emotion Stiles should be displaying right now.

Stiles is pretty sure that what he _should_ be displaying instead is concern. Panic. Terror. Maybe some hope, or reassurance. Actually, he is feeling those first few things. He'd like to say that this whole situation, this... this scenario, this _pattern_ has now happened enough times that it sort of feels like It's their Thing--like a capital-T- _Thing_ he and Derek do--and he's so used to it that he can't even be bothered to get worked up. You know, fight some bad guys (hunters, rival packs, murderous creatures, creepy-ass evil families--theirs, and other people's), maybe deal with a poisonous substance or two, and, ultimately, get a little wounded in handling all the excitement. But Derek's always gotta go and end up all half-dead, or in immediate danger of being all-dead.

Someone needs to tell him he's gotta knock that shit off already. Stiles did not sign up to be a werewolf EMT (or, rather, an EMT for werewolves, if you want to split hairs over the grammar)--that shit is now Melissa McCall's new thing, with some training from Deaton, and Stiles may be learning some stuff, but he's not--

His train of thought is cut off as Derek's fingers dig into Stiles's wrist, and oh yeah, shit, he should probably focus. On the indignation. Not the blood. Because that's just likely to make him puke on Derek, or worse, pass out, and that's not gonna help, like, _at all_.

"It's a perfectly good name!" Stiles insists, trying to pry Derek's hand off his wrist, because ow. It ends in human fingers with blunt nails, not claws, and seriously, how fucked up is his life that he can't even tell if that's a good or bad thing right now? He can't tell if Derek's too weak or in too much pain to be in his shifted form, or if he's just simply got a good enough handle on himself, all things considered, to remain human.

"It's not even real," Derek grits out, locking eyes with him, and Stiles understands, gets that Derek's using this stupid argument as a way to keep himself both distracted from how bad this all is, and to keep himself conscious. Oh man, that he even knows to try that, even with as much as everything's gotta hurt (seriously, where's the healing, this wasn't some damned alpha-induced injury, because whatever that was, it wasn't a werewolf, and Stiles is pretty sure there's no wolfsbane involved), means Derek's been in this situation too damned many times. Life choices, man; Derek could make some better ones.

"It's real!" Trying to figure out how he can stop Derek's chest and abdomen from bleeding actually requires Stiles to _look_ at said injuries, and whoa, yeah, that's his stomach doing somersaults and his vision and hearing trying to blur a little. Best take a page from Derek's book and not focus too hard on that. "Just because it's not the name I was born with doesn't make it any less real."

Seriously, where the hell is the rest of the pack? Or even Allison, or Lydia? Stiles would even take Jackson's 'now I've lived abroad and nothing is ever good enough' loser ass showing up right now, because at least he'd have the supernatural strength thing going for him, and could haul Derek's incredibly heavy, muscled body out of here and somewhere with help. Actual help. Because Stiles does the research and planning and strategy stuff, a little of the magic stuff Deaton's taught him, but is very little fucking help otherwise.

There's no response as Stiles checks his phone for a text or missed call or voicemail from _someone_ , and when Stiles shoves his phone back in his pocket, he can see it's because Derek's eyes are rolling back into his head, his eyelids doing that fluttering thing as he lets consciousness get away from him. Aw, hell no, that's not gonna happen. "Derek? Derek?" The fingers that he'd managed to remove from around his wrist had relocated to the hem of Stiles's flannel shirt, but now they loosen, and then Derek's arm drops down, hitting the floor. "Shit, man, don't murder me for this later, okay?" Stiles mutters, taking a deep breath and slapping Derek's cheek hard enough his palm stings.

Derek gasps, breathing suddenly fast and shallow, but his eyes do open, and fix once again on Stiles's face. "It does," he says between pants. "In the--in the eyes of the law, it's not real."

"Oh, you're lecturing _me_ about the law? The sheriff's son? Really?" C'mon, Stiles, keep the dude irritated. At least it keeps him conscious. He shucks out of his flannel shirt, which is already ruined anyway, with streaks of Derek's blood and actual, legit _hand prints_ of it pressed into the fabric, and folds it into eight layers, the width of it enough for him to get both palms on top. The worst of the bleeding seems to be coming from above the crest of Derek's left hip, trailing toward his navel, and Stiles pulls Derek's shredded T-shirt away (oh yeah, that's definitely not good; that's muscle he can see, not just sliced skin, and okay, Stiles might have to go vegetarian for a week or two, after this), and presses his flannel to the wound, determinedly not looking at it.

"Yeah," Derek says, taking Stiles's wrists a lot more gently than he had a minute ago and shifting them an inch or two to the side, then nodding, and Stiles lets out a grateful noise and puts as much pressure as he feasibly can onto the spot, not thinking about how his hands are warm and sticky already. "Don't be stupid. You have to know it's not like they can--" he spasms slightly, though Stiles isn't sure why, "--can put it on your college diploma." He moans and shudders again. "Or your driver's license," he adds, voice fading out on the last word.

"There are ways around that," Stiles counters, and oh, _there's_ the sound of car doors slamming from outside, thank God. He doesn't have the werewolf hearing going for him, but the muffled shouts he does hear sound like familiar voices. Scott and Isaac and Deaton, and someone who might or might not be Scott's mom. "Legal name changes and stuff."

"That's--" Derek says, and Stiles doesn't catch the rest of it, because that's when the cavalry bursts in though the door and they get swarmed, people shouting his name and Derek's, and then Mrs. McCall takes a quick, assessing look at what's going on and replaces Stiles's hands with her own, directing him to help Deaton with the remedies he's sorting through in his little leather bag.

He could kiss her, seriously.

There's bustling all around Derek, Scott stepping in to help and be another pair of at least semi-capable hands, and Isaac making a phone call Stiles can't quite understand, and then Scott and Deaton are hauling Derek off the floor and toward the door. Stiles can't see much, but the way Derek's sagging between them doesn't make him optimistic.

And then, amidst it all, he hears his name, in Derek's rough voice, and he scurries toward them, in case he's about to be given some task, some instruction, some research directive. "Yeah?" he says, trying to ignore the way his hands are starting to shake.

Derek manages to swivel his head back and look at him. His face is pale and sweaty and he looks like he's seconds from death. "How the hell did you even _get_ the name 'Stiles'?" he rasps and, somehow, he manages to smirk. Stiles feels something loosen in his stomach and chest when he sees it, like maybe Derek will be okay after all, even though if there's anyone who'll spend their last breath on some sarcastic line (besides Stiles himself, shut up), it's Derek.

"Live through this, and maybe you'll get the answer out of me someday," Stiles tells him as Deaton and Scott drag him out the door. He hears Derek say something that might be "I'm holding you to that," before it all catches up with him and his legs give out, dumping him on the floor a few yards from where Isaac's standing, looking slightly shell-shocked as he stares towards the door. "Good luck with that," Stiles breathes shakily to himself, smiling a little as Isaac snaps out of it and manages to hoist him up. "Good fucking luck."


	2. Chapter 2

John doesn't know what he'd been expecting when it came to this meeting with Stiles's teachers, but it hadn't really been this. 

He knows this guy--Bobby Finstock--is also the lacrosse coach, and the cross-country coach during the off-season, or something like that. He's heard his son complain about the guy enough, both at the dinner table and to Scott whenever they're both over or Stiles isn't being particularly careful to keep his phone conversations down to a normal level. John makes a reasonable effort not to snoop too much into his son's life, though he _is_ the sheriff, because he wants them to have a better relationship than that, and he thinks that his son might actually believe that he can trust him with whatever concerns or secrets he has. Not that he's never been _tempted_ to indulge in a little off-the-clock detective work. 

Even all of Stiles's bitching hasn't really prepared him for the man, in the flesh.

 _Cupcake_. For the love of God, this is one of the men they put in charge of a group of teenagers? Really? It makes John think that maybe that thing he'd heard the boys mention once, about their coach being missing...a particular part of his anatomy, well, maybe that was the sort of thing the man did, in fact, share with his students, and not some bit of wild speculation.

John tries not to immediately add Bobby Finstock to his mental list of People to Look Into Later. Tries. He's only human.

Finstock seems the type to put his foot in his mouth just as often as Stiles does and, despite the awkward moment about loving Claudia and giving in to her request to name their son after her father, at least he focuses long enough to actually begin his little spiel about how John's son is doing, as a student.

He really didn't see the essay question about the history of the male circumcision thing coming, though. He wonders for a moment if that's the sort of thing he should talk to Stiles about, or just leave it the hell alone, and leave them both a little less traumatized and mentally scarred. 

When he finally leaves the classroom, headed for the parking lot, John's almost in a daze. Finstock said his son had no ability to focus, which, well, Stiles is his _son_ , it's not like John doesn't know where that's coming from. But he's also seen that determined look on his son's face, seen him staring at the computer screen, eyes tracking their way quickly and steadily down the page, his fingers moving to rapidly enter in more terms or click open more windows before he figures out his dad's standing in his doorway, and makes a move to close everything like he's been caught watching some of the dirty videos the internet thrives upon. 

(John's never caught Stiles watching anything like that, and doesn't really want to think about it. That's some snooping into his son's life he'll _never_ do, thank you very much. He remembers what it's like to be a teenage boy, and his son's smart enough to know a lot of things about that whole subject. Besides, they've had the Talk, and then a follow-up Talk that was hellaciously awkward for the both of them; John had felt briefly guilty for being jealous Claudia had died without having to go through that particular torture, until he realized she'd have stuck him with that responsibility anyway, and then smirked at him for _hours_ after.)

Point is, John knows Stiles can focus when he really has something his brain deems worthy, even if he can't always control what that something is. 

But the thing about not fully using his talents, utilizing his potential, well, that's a little hard for a father to take. Especially because he knows his son's smart. A little nosy, a little lacking in tact, not always perfect about listening, but definitely a clever kid. Maybe it's something all parents believe, but John knows his son will be amazing, once he finally finds his destined path. Maybe no one--Stiles included--knows which direction that path lies, but he'll figure it out. In that, John has complete faith. That's one of the things he's tried to pass on to his son--a healthy sense of faith and conviction. Along with the fortitude to stick with something, if it's important enough.

John snorts to himself quietly in the emptying halls. He's certainly stuck with that nickname of his. He still remembers the day Stiles made the declaration to both him and Claudia that he only wanted to be called Stiles. It's been long enough, and seems so natural now that John actually has to pause when filling in forms and listing things like children, next of kin, that sort of thing, to make sure he uses his son's legal name. He doesn't even think of his son by his given name anymore, hasn't in a hell of a lot of years. He thinks the last time anyone's said it aloud was probably in the days immediately around Claudia's funeral, said it awkwardly, either due to the uncommon name itself, or just the circumstances, but now, he can't think it without hearing that inflection.

Sighing softly, John shakes his head to clear it. Up ahead, out in the parking lot, he hears what might be a slight commotion, and speeds up a little to investigate.

Maybe, all things considered, it's not the worst thing in the world for his son to leave his first name behind and take up another.


	3. Chapter 3

Melissa hates that Scott's had to make this choice. He wanted to live with the asshol--with his dad, and then it had all gone...well, it went about as badly as Melissa had feared it would. She'd hoped it wouldn't, solely for her son's sake, but in her heart of hearts, she knows there was relief and thanks and something sharp and not at all pleasant when Scott tearfully asked if maybe he couldn't live with just her, instead. She still remembers his face, big eyes turned up toward hers, earnestly telling her that he'd even be okay with the babysitters or neighbors she had to leave him with because of her job at the hospital.

There have been moments when she's worried that maybe Scott's a bit too naive, a bit too trusting, to keep his heart from being broken by life and all the awful things in it that take advantage of someone that wears their heart on their sleeve like that. But he's her baby, will always be her baby, even if he grows up to be all muscle and tattoos and ends up half a foot taller than she is. There's nothing she wouldn't do to keep her son safe, nothing in all the feasible world that could keep her from loving him. He could go through one of those teenage phases and he'd still be her Scott, wouldn't he?

So it breaks her heart a little to see him so dejected as she sends him off to his new school here in Beacon Hills. She knows the people, knows the town, but Scott doesn't. He still gives her that small, shy smile when she hugs him goodbye before he leaves the house, out of the sight of anyone else his age, and he beams when she drags herself home after a shift to find him eating dinner or sitting at the table with his homework in front of him. But on the days he comes home to find her sitting there, waiting for him, she's nearly blinded by the dazzling smile he throws her.

If only she didn't see the miserable look on his face before he catches sight of her.

There's a day things change, though and, thankfully, it's not too long after the new school year starts. A few days before, Scott had come home and talked about this hilarious kid in his class, who'd gotten into trouble with the teacher for arguing. Melissa had hummed in response, trying not to lecture her son about potentially troublesome playmates (friends, he insisted when she later used the term; they were too _old_ for playmates, God). Yesterday, he'd mentioned the same kid's father coming in to talk to them during an assembly--one of the sheriff's deputies--and she'd relaxed a little as they both ate the pizza she'd brought home after work. 

Today, though, she'd gotten a call at the hospital with her son's voice on the other end, which had impatiently asked if she would be home this afternoon, and could he have a friend come over. After the brief moment of relief where she realized she didn't generally have to worry about getting a call telling her to get herself to the emergency room right away because her son was hurt, if only because she was already in the emergency room, and that would be ridiculous (though she might still have to worry about the call from the police station, asking her to come retrieve her son), she'd been able to give him an answer. She'd reminded Scott that he was only supposed to call her at work for emergencies, then said that yes, she would be home just as school let out, and yes, his friend could come over, so long as his friend's parents were all right with it.

"Parent, Mom. He just lives with his dad, like I used--like I just live with you," Scott told her before saying a quick thanks and hanging up with the promise not to call work again. Melissa hadn't even got out "I love you," before the phone went dead, and she thought that at least it might be nice for Scott to have a friend who knew what it was like to live in a single-parent household, because empathy was a strong, powerful thing.

She's been at home and out of her scrubs for all of ten minutes, standing barefoot in jeans and a sweater while preheating the oven (frozen lasagna) when the front door bursts open in front of a whirlwind of hyperactivity.

"Mom! You're home!" Scott exclaims, throwing his backpack onto the floor inside the front door, and Melissa winces slightly to hear his happy surprise, even though she'd told him she would be. Hospital shifts really make it hard to be home and spend time with her son, sometimes, but she loves the work, and she's made for it, she knows. "I brought a friend!"

Melissa almost expects him to add "he followed me home!", given the bright look in his eyes, even though the kid standing at her son's side has supposedly asked his parents-- _parent_ , she reminds herself--permission. "So I see," she says, stepping out of the kitchen and into the dining room to greet the boys. Scott looks torn between giving her a hug and appearing too mature for that sort of thing in front of his friend, who seems very quiet and is looking at her with big doe eyes that are probably going to make some girl swoon in a couple of years, if they haven't aready. "Who's this, Scott?"

"This is Stiles," he says, giving her a look that clearly translates as "duh," like she should know that already.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Miles?"

" _Stiles_ ," the other boy says, and there's something just the slightest bit challenging in his answer, though he's smiling a little awkwardly. Melissa thinks it might be something to do with having to repeat his name for people all the time. There was a girl she went to nursing school with like that, who confessed she'd hated roll-call her entire life because she'd never had an instructor that didn't butcher her name on the first day, and some of them had never moved on to a correct pronunciation. "With an S."

"Oh! I'm sorry! Stiles," she says, smiling at this kid, who immediately looks more relaxed when she says it correctly. "I was going to say, you don't really look like a Miles."

"Of course he doesn't," Scott pipes up from where he's sneaked around her and into the kitchen to peer at what's waiting to be popped into the oven. "Lasagna? Awesome!" She hears the tone of voice and knows what her son's going to say even before he opens his mouth: "Can Stiles stay over for dinner?"

It would be hard to say no to that face in any case, especially since she's not really seen Scott look this enthusiastic about anything in a while, but Melissa had already foreseen the request hours ago, and is just glad this kid doesn't seem to be a hoodlum. "If he gets permission from his..." She falters just for a minute, but the kid beats her to the recovery.

"My dad," he supplies hurriedly, but his face looks a little pinched. "He's, uh, at the station right now, but I can call dispatch if he's not in the office...." He suddenly stands up a little straighter, almost as if nudged meaningfully, though Scott's at her side, not this kid's. "I mean, uh, is it okay to use your phone, Mrs. McCall?"

"Of course," she says, trying not to smile too much at the apparent remembrance of manners. So this is the deputy's son. Not at all what she'd pictured. And so quiet. "Scott can show you where--" She doesn't even get to finish before Scott's dragging his new friend back into the living room, as if she'll take back the permission if Stiles doesn't make that phone call this very second. She turns back to the oven and pops dinner inside, startling a moment later when someone appears behind her, unnoticed until they speak.

"My dad says it's okay this time!" a voice crows, and whoa, that caught her totally off-guard. "He says I shouldn't impose, and that I should behave, and..." Stiles trails off and sighs, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, "and that I should tell you I probably shouldn't have a lot of sugar, because of my medication."

"Oh, are you diabetic?" Melissa asks, blinking. She hadn't thought to ask about food allergies or anything. Parents these days were pretty good at teaching their kids to speak up about that sort of thing. "If you need--"

"Oh, no, I'm not sick or anything," Stiles says, laughing, as Scott comes around the corner to join him, holding a PlayStation game in his hand, even though they haven't touched their homework. "I just have to take pills to focus, for school and stuff. Don't worry. My dad--and my doctor--just think I get too...wound up on sugar, and cancel it out and stuff. I'm kind of a handful sometimes," Stiles adds, flapping his hand. 

"I...see." It's all Melissa can come up with.

"Oh! But I promise, I'm not a bad kid or anything. It's just, uh, you can tell me to shut up, and I won't get offended. My dad sometimes jokes that he should send me out in public with tape over my mouth, or people might--okay, I'll shut up now," he finishes, blushing a little and glancing over at Scott with a look that conveys something like "dude, I think I totally just blew it with your mom."

"So...no soda with dinner," is Melissa's eventual response. She doesn't generally have a lot of junk in the house anyway, but she's not one of those purists who won't allow refined sugar or processed foods past their front door. 

It's all Melissa can do, the rest of the night, not to think that inviting Stiles over for dinner is the conversational equivalent of inviting a vampire to enter your home. Because her earlier thought that Scott's new friend was quiet is quickly and thoroughly proven to be an incorrect assumption. He talks a mile a minute, changes conversational direction so frequently it's like trying to follow a rubber ball around a small room with hard floors, and goes off on tangents so random even _she_ has trouble remembering what the original conversation was about. And this is the kid _on_ medication. 

She feels a little sorry for the kid's father. She's sure he must have built up a tolerance to this sort of thing, though. Hopes so, for that poor man's sake.

The only time Stiles ever really quiets is when she asks, during a rare lull where both boys have their mouths shoved full enough of food to be unable to speak around it, if he was named after someone. "It's an unusual name," she adds, realizing he looks a little...odd after she asks.

He swallows his food, then plays with his fork for a moment. Even Scott's looking at his friend curiously, like he doesn't know the answer to the question. She supposes boys don't think of that sort of thing. Besides, there are a lot of uncommon names and spellings on kids these days--Melissa sees a lot of them on medical charts. Scott probably just didn't think twice about it. "Actually, I sort of... Yeah, uh, I was named after my grandfather," he says, then looks down at his food, which is nearly gone. It's almost like he's lying, the body language not unlike the junkies who lie through their teeth about migraines or unsubstantiated pain just to get drugs. She almost-- _almost_ feels that she's asked the wrong sort of question, somehow, because that also seems like the complete truth. There's awkward quiet for a moment until Scott says something about someone in their class, and then the conversation picks up again, steady and quick, like there'd never been a gap at all.

It's a little strange, maybe, but Melissa shrugs it off. So he's named after a relative. There's more than one Stiles out there somewhere. That's not all that weird, and maybe the awkwardness is just because he doesn't _like_ that family member. And, unusual name or not, she can't deny that the kid's got personality, and what seems to be more than enough room in his hyperactive little heart for her son.

Good enough for her.


	4. Chapter 4

The first day of school is one of those days no one looks forward to, Stiles is pretty sure. Well, maybe some parents. Probably even his. He's seen his parents look at each other over his head a lot, especially as it gets later into the summer, doing that thing where they have a conversation without actually _talking_. 

He wonders if his parents have a calendar where they cross off the days until the next school year starts, like the one he has for Christmas. He sees his dad looking at the one on the fridge sometimes, kind of dazed. 

Well, either way, Stiles knows he doesn't look forward to school starting up again, and some of the teachers smile a lot, but he thinks they don't like it any more than the students do, really. It means their vacation is over, too. It's not like he still believes teachers live at school or anything. His new teacher, Mrs. Leyden, might be okay, though. He's seen her in the halls for the last couple of years, and she's even waved to him once. She looks nice. Not like she'll yell at him as much as Mr. Schwartz, his second grade teacher. 

He lets his mom give him a hug before he heads outside for the bus stop, and his dad calls out "give 'em heck, tiger...but don't argue too much with the new teacher," from over his cup of coffee and plate of bacon and eggs. Stiles tosses a wave over his shoulder before stepping out the door and resolutely ignoring Jackson Whittemore, who's already waiting at the stop.

"Thought your dad was going to give you a ride in his fancy new car," Stiles says, after a moment, unable to keep silent after all, and is a little pleased to see Jackson scowl.

"Didn't have the time today," the other kid mutters. "But his car _is_ really nice--better than anyone else's dad's. But _my_ car's going to be even cooler, when I'm old enough."

Stiles shrugs and goes back to ignoring him. He bounces up and down a little on his toes. He's not really looking forward to school, but he's got new tennis shoes and a new backpack and stuff, and his mom snuck an extra Twinkie into his bag this morning, so the day won't be all that bad, even if Jackson does end up in his classroom again. Stiles would rather sit next to anyone else. Danny, or that weird Erica girl, or, yeah, really, _anyone_. Even Greenberg.

Stiles walks past the playground once the bus lets them off, watching a bunch of the younger kids running around and screaming. Part of him itches to join them, sprint over there and swing high enough to flip over the bar, or even just get going really high and launch himself off to see how far away he can land. He still has the scar on his knee from that last year. It was _awesome_ , even if seeing all the blood made him a little dizzy.

This is third grade, though. He's too old for that. 

He's walking by the flagpole when he sees her for the first time. Girl his age, wearing lots of pink and a bit of silver, strawberry-blonde hair that looks really soft, curled and tied up in a ribbon. She follows a fancy-looking woman into the building, headed straight for the office, and Stiles follows right along behind them like some sort of out-of-place duckling. He just stands there as the girl's mom starts talking to the school secretary, and the girl turns to look at him.

He's pretty sure this is the girl he's going to marry.

She eyes him for a long moment, and Stiles just sort of stares back. Finally, she tilts her head at him, sort of like adults do when they're trying to figure out if he's being difficult on purpose. "So," she says, sounding like a grownup herself. "I'm new here. My name's Lydia. Who are you?"

Stiles forgets how to talk for a second, and just sort of gestures with his hands until his mouth starts to remember what words are like. "I'm Stiles!" he says, proud of himself for getting that out.

"Stiles?" the girl says, face scrunching up a little. "That's...really weird."

"Yeah, maybe it is," he agrees, even though it's _not_ , but he can't help but agree with her, because he can already tell she's right about everything.

"I mean, it's a weird name, but it's even weirder because you don't actually have any. Style, that is." She still has that look on her face, like she's trying to figure it out.

Stiles looks down at his outfit. It's not bad. Jeans, new tennis shoes, brand new Batman T-shirt. His socks are white. They go with everything. "Uh. I don't?"

"Nope," she informs him, decision apparently made. "You look clean and everything, and that stuff you're wearing all looks new, but there's not really any actual _style_ in that outfit. What brand are your jeans?"

Stiles blinks. He actually has no idea. Jeans are jeans, to him. They fit. The legs aren't too short. No holes, and the zipper doesn't stick. "I'm not sure?"

Lydia sighs and shakes her head. "Of course you're not." 

She looks like she's going to say something else, but the woman who's been talking to the secretary turns around and sighs very much like Lydia had. "Come on, Lydia. Let's go find Mrs. Leyden's room."

"I can show you where that is!" Stiles supplies helpfully to the woman, who looks like she must be her mom, even if she looks like she's always cranky, and Lydia looks like she smiles a lot more.

Lydia's mom gives him that same appraising look. It doesn't make him want to measure up to her standards as much as it did when Lydia gave it. "That's all right, we can find it ourselves. Come along, dear," she instructs, walking away quickly, her high heels clicking on the linoleum floor.

"Bye, I guess," Lydia says, flipping her hair and walking after the woman. Stiles hears her say "Mom, that boy had the _weirdest_ name," as they round the corner.

Stiles is too smitten to care about the dig at his name. He's totally in love with that girl, and someday, he'll prove it.


	5. Chapter 5

He may only be in first grade, but Stiles gets that grownups aren't always right. _They_ don't seem to understand that, though, and he's already been sent to the principal's office three times this year for trying to inform them of his discovery.

His parents aren't exactly happy about that. He heard the school secretary say something about it being a record, six weeks into the school year, especially for a first grader. 

Stiles's dad works for the sheriff's department. Even he knows not all records are the cool kind, like the guy he saw on TV who eats light bulbs. 

Right now, though, he's learned that teachers are total liars when they say that everyone can get along and be friends. Because Jackson Whittemore is stupid. A jerk. A total _butthead_. 

"Just because your dad's a cop doesn't mean you're special," Jackson says. "He's not even the sheriff or anything. He's just some no-name deputy."

Stiles vows that somehow, he will get his dad to arrest Jackson. Maybe not today, maybe not even this year, but _someday_ , Jackson will be sitting locked in the back of a cop car or one of the vans they use to transport more than one or two people or take them to court. "He might not be the sheriff right now, but some day, he _will_ be!" Stiles retorts, because he knows this is true. His dad is awesome, and the whole town loves him, and they'll totally vote him as the sheriff soon. He's heard his parents talk about what his dad has to do for that to happen someday, late at night when he's supposed to be in bed but can't fall asleep. 

"So? That still doesn't make you special."

"You're not special either!" is Stiles's comeback, even though Stiles knows he himself _is_ special; his mom tells him so. A lot. She's not a liar like a lot of other grownups. His dad, either, except for that time he said Brussels sprouts wouldn't be that bad. In hindsight, he should have known that was a lie, because his dad never ate them, either. "Just because you're rich and go to sports camps and know how to play tennis and you have a pool doesn't mean you're cool!"

"Well, at least I don't have a lame name," Jackson says, moving closer. "What kind of freak name is Stiles, anyway? It's a loser kind of n--"

That's as far as Jackson gets before Stiles launches himself at him, swinging in righteous fury. Sports camp apparently didn't teach Jackson how to not fall over when someone leaps at him, and Stiles feels sort of pleased about that. "You take that back!" Stiles is shouting as someone pulls him off Jackson by the collar of his shirt and back of his shorts. Stiles expects it to be one of the teachers, or worse, the principal, but instead finds it's some other kid, probably a fifth or sixth grader he's never seen before, and he's good with faces. Probably one of the home-school kids. Stiles knows there's a family of them in town--he's met a girl named Cora once, in line at the ice cream place behind his family, and she seemed nice, even if she was shy enough to hold onto her dad's leg the entire time.

"You can't let your emotions get away with you," the older kid says, setting Stiles down on his feet like he doesn't weigh any more than a stuffed toy. "Didn't anyone teach you that yet?" He looks down at Jackson and rolls his eyes. "Even if you're aggravated by a total douche."

Stiles doesn't know what that word means, though he's heard the older kids, especially some high schoolers that hang around the park, use it. "But he--"

"Stilinski!" A voice booms behind them. "Whittemore!" Stiles cringes, and Jackson scrambles up from the ground, glaring at everyone, the newly-arrived principal included. There's a pause, and then Mr. Ralston looks at the older kid. "Aren't you one of the Hales? Dennis?"

"Derek," the older kid says, looking like he wants to run away.

"Right. Well, your mom's done in the office. Go meet her inside. Leave the little kids alone." Stiles wants to protest at that, being called a little kid, because it feels kind of insulting, even if they're only older than the kindergartners here at Beacon Hills Elementary. Mr. Ralston sighs as that Derek kid leaves, and looks at Stiles and Jackson, shaking his head. "Again, boys?"

"He started it!" Stiles cries, the same time Jackson shouts "He hit me first! My dad is gonna--"

"Let's not start invoking your father and his job here, Mr. Whittemore," Mr. Ralston says. "Just, both of you, head to my office. Maintain a reasonable distance between you, please. No touching, or you'll be the first pair of kids this young I've ever had to suspend."

Stiles goes first, because he knows when he's beaten, and doesn't want to make either of his parents have that disappointed look more than they already will. Jackson's not smart enough for that, and is still trying to tell the principal that his dad is going to come in and start yelling and make them take Stiles away, make him have to stay far away from him for the rest of his life, and Stiles rolls his eyes as the door to the school shuts behind him, closing off the noise. What a butthead. No, what was it that Derek kid said? Douche. Right. Jackson's a total douche, whatever that actually is. 

Stiles just sort of shrugs at the secretary when he reaches the office, then sits up in the first chair outside Mr. Ralston's door and waits. Derek and his mom are gone, apparently, because he's the only one in here besides the secretary and the nurse. Stiles still wants to fight with Jackson some more, but tells himself he's in enough trouble in school for not keeping his hands to himself, or wandering around the classroom when he's supposed to be working, or drawing on his desk instead of paying attention during classroom story time, when Miss Thompson reads to them all after recess. 

It's _not_ a freak name, Stiles thinks to himself as he waits, swinging his feet and sitting on his hands to keep them still. It's _not_ for losers. It's _his_ name, and it's just as special and awesome as he is.


	6. Chapter 6

Learning to write hasn't been the easiest thing he's ever done. It's been a little hard, trying to make the pencils and crayons make the same shapes on paper as the ones on the blackboard, even with this mother's help at home after school. But now that he's got it sort of to where adults can tell what he's writing, there's a whole new element to it. 

Spelling? Definitely harder.

They have a substitute teacher today, and she's...okay. Not as good as their real teacher, who doesn't frown at him a lot and yell during nap time and threaten to call his parents if he can't sit still during show and tell. But she doesn't know any of them, which is probably why she's torturing them all with this project.

"It's not that bad!" she's telling him, bent over across the table from him like a giant who's going to squash a tiny human. "It's just your name. Everyone has to learn to write their name! Some of your classmates can already do it, especially if they went to preschool."

"Yeah, but--" he starts, before she cuts him off. She doesn't _understand_. This is punishment for something, he knows it, and when he gets home, his parents are going to have some things to answer for, or he will talk through their TV shows just to make them mad, even if it does mean no dessert after dinner.

"No buts," she says, and he just frowns. "If you're having trouble spelling it, just...sound it out."

Even at five years old, he wants to laugh bitterly. He's pretty sure he now knows why his mom calls him "Pooh Bear," and that it's not just because he always asks for peanut butter and honey sandwiches. He whispers his first name aloud to himself, and can't get any farther than the first letter. His mom says it different than his dad does, just a little, and his grandma says it another completely different way, so he sighs and figures he'll try his last name. People call him that, too--mostly the guys his dad works with, who come over and watch sports or barbecue with his dad on their days off. Deputy Jared has only ever called him "Stilinski," actually. He kind of likes it. Makes him feel important, because they call his dad that, too.

Turns out his last name isn't much easier. 

He can recognize his name if it's written, usually because of the shapes, all the straight lines in the last name and dots above some of them, and he can read a little bit, because his mom's been working with him on that. But sounding out his own name is _hard_ , and he almost wishes he was named Sam.

S. He's got that. Like the snake that hisses, no big deal. Next is the T. He mouths "st" to himself a few times, confident he's got that right. Next is... It's one of those letters that sounds different ways sometimes. "Stiiiiillllll," he murmurs to himself quietly, dragging out different parts of the sound until he settles on an I over an E. That looks right. More straight up-and-down lines. Next is L, that's easy. 

The substitute couldn't have done them the favor of writing their names down for them to just _copy_?

He gets as far as S-T-I-L-E-S before he gives up, slouching in his chair and letting his head loll back. He hates his life. He's going to tell his parents that, and ask them to give him a better name. His dad's a cop, he can get someone to change it, or threaten to shoot him if they argue.

The substitute comes back around as he's trying to count the tiles in the ceiling (it's a number a lot higher than he's learned to count to is his general assessment, maybe a million) and stops, looking at his paper. "Is this your name?" she asks, looking at him funny.

He looks at the paper, tries to sound it out again, and thinks that maybe he left out a letter, maybe...maybe an N? Besides the fact that he didn't actually finish. But this is just a substitute anyway, and his real teacher will be back tomorrow, and he can wail at her and make his most adorable face and tell her how unfair the whole thing was and maybe get her on his side to ask his parents about a better name. "Yeah," he says, because maybe if she thinks he's done, he can go over and play with the toys, or go talk to Danny, or Isaac, who's really nice, or even just color at his table.

"Stiles?" she asks, unsure, looking at him even funnier. "Your name is Stiles?" She says it the way his mom does when she's talking about changing her hair, like hair styles, and yeah, that sounds like he's forgotten a letter before he gave up without finishing.

He thinks about it for a second. Stiles. It's a short name. Kind of different. He doesn't know anyone else with that name, unlike the three boys in his class named Jason, or the two Shannons. He says it in his head a few times. Stiles. 

Yeah, he likes it.

"Yeah," he says, nodding enthusiastically. "Stiles. That's me. That's what everyone calls me." He sees one of the girls at his table (Erica?) look at him funny, and he hopes she doesn't say anything. She seems content enough to drop her head back down to her own work, now writing her name in different colors. "I'm Stiles." He shoots the substitute his best smile, and she smiles back a little before moving on to the next table, where Isaac has his hand raised and looks as confused as he--Stiles--was, just a few minutes ago.

"Stiles Stilinski," he whispers to himself, reaching for the blue marker in the middle of the table and going to write it on a new sheet of paper, for practice. "Best name ever."


End file.
